Survival
by Kaizoku-Taii
Summary: This was not, the great detective Sherlock Holmes surmised, the kind of day where you want to be barely clinging on to a thin rope hanging from the roof of a very tall building." small cute oneshot about Holmes after Watson left him. Maybe bromance.


**Hey there people!! A small oneshot, this one; just a plot bunny that attacked me at one am last night and which i wrote on my iphone - but dont worry, i came back and edditted it tonight!! xD. I just loved the film SO MUCH I had to write a fanfic.I hope you like it!! PLEASE reveiw...**

It was a cold day in London; both the weather and the mood seemed bleak and cheerless. The whole city was caught in a state of limbo between the celebrations that welcomed the New Year in and the return of the dreary plod of day-to-day life. It was the kind of day where, really, you want to be completely drunk and sitting comfily by your fire in your house.

It was not, the great detective Sherlock Holmes surmised, the kind of day where you want to be barely clinging on to a thin rope hanging from the roof of a very tall building.

Pondering for a moment, Holmes wondered whether he had _ever_ had the kind of day where he had wanted to be barely clinging on to a thin rope hanging from the roof of a very tall building. Quite sullenly, he decided he doubtlessly had, he just couldn't remember it.

He also wondered whether his fingers were going to make good on their none-verbal threats to fall off, or if they were just taunting him, like the rest of this grey town that had once had so much colour.

He had been hanging there for a good few minutes, now. Seven, in fact- seven and thirty seven seconds. Thirty eight. Thirty nine. Forty…Forty one...

Holmes shook himself. He had not been letting go if the rope, he had not been slipping away. He had not. He was fine. He looked down, to where far, far- far, far... far... faar...

_Damnit Holmes! Snap out of it!!_

_Watson? _

_Oh great - now I'm hearing his voice..._

Where, (far, _far_ below) a body was lying, bent and broken. Holmes was unfazed – he had often used high places to bring an end to his opponent's tirade of mild annoyance. And this man had been one of the most annoying; despite being a welcome relief from the smoky room which Holmes had always loved, the one which now held too many painful memories. This man had been a murdering bastard, a thief and a complete buffoon – but despite that, he had beaten Holmes up pretty bad.

Then, in one final desperate attempt to annoy the detective more – or save his own sorry life, possibly – he had grabbed his adversary as he had fallen, taking him with him. If Holmes wasn't lighting fast _and _a genius, he may have not found the rope he had already noted as something the man might use to further put off his further demise.

Holmes wondered if the man's spirit particularly minded that Holmes was dripping blood all over his body. After a moment's consideration, Sherlock vehemently decided that he hoped the man did. Then he made a concerted effort to bleed _harder _damn it.

A small voice in his head told him that perhaps? That _wasn't_ such a good idea. He agreed, settling for just glaring at the body.

He found himself hoping that it was larger and softer than it looked. In fact, he found himself hoping that, in the time since he had last looked, the body of the brutal murderer had somehow transformed into a large bed, or other such soft landing platform. For a moment, Holmes hoped, then took a faithful look down. The body stared accusatively back at him.

The same old hard, unforgiving, exceptionally un-landing-platform-like body.

Blood loss was a bitch.

Heck, reality her self was being pretty mean.

Suddenly, numb fingers slipped through cold rope, slipping, sliding, falling, scrabbling- a grip, a painful jolt that ripped through his shoulders; then bright hot, searing pain roaring down his arms, his fingers screaming at him now.

Boy, did that rope burn _hurt_.

Holmes looked dolefully up at his tired fingers. They were blue. He was pretty sure that was bad, but he couldn't quite grasp the thought for long enough to worry too much. He also realised that the fingers on his left hand were caught in the rope in wholly unnatural way. He worried that they weren't hurting as much as he was _sure _they should be. But he didn't worry. He just had to hold on, to wait.

Holmes wondered, silently, what exactly it was he was waiting for.

The answer came quick enough. There could only be one thing.

_He's not coming_. He didn't know who _that_ was, but he knew he disliked them quite a lot, quite quickly.

"Nonsense" The voice he pushed out through his gritted teeth was ragged with strain "He'll be right here to haul me up and get me home, he always is. I just have to wait."

_He's not coming._

"I'll show you. Its not as if I can climb up on my own. He knows that."

_He's not coming._

"I do wish you would stop saying that."

_He's not._

The silence was long, heavy, and painful. It was the silence of a man who had given up lying to himself.

"I know" A quiet whisper. Weak and lost. Ah, reality - still a bitch.

He looked up at the rope, up at the roof, up at the blue sky. Watson was not coming. Holmes had to make it himself.

With an almighty heave, Holmes put one hand above the other. Then, breathing hard through the pain in his ribs – _one fracture, many bruised _– he loosened his grip on the lower hand and raised it above the upper one. He gripped the rope again.

Grunt. Loosen, lift, grip. Pain

Pause, breathe, in, out, loosen, lift, grip.

Pain. Lift head, look up. Loosen, lift, grip. Pain.

Grimace. Loosen, lift, grip.

Grunt, loosen, lift, grip. Pain.

Holmes decided there might be something wrong with his left hand.

Breathe. Loosen, pause, lift, grip, breath.

Loosen, lift...Roof.

Holmes crawled over the edge and struggled shakily forward a safe distance onto the roof - then he gave up, collapsed; just lay there. He knew that he would get up, he always got up- but for now he would just pause. Rest.

He had done it on his own. He had finally proved that although Watson had gone away, had abandoned him- he would still survive. He had survived before.

Sherlock Holmes could survive through anything.

Sherlock Holmes didn't want to survive. Not again. He had always survived his life – an eccentric but ultimately alone figure, with no end of long, active, nights and short, meaningless relationships, in both friendship and love. He had survived each day, and woken up ready to survive the next. Then, one fateful day, he had met Watson.

Suddenly, he had been living. He had been alive, completely and utterly. Now, everyday as not just what happens after the night before – but a new adventure. It was a thriving, glowing existence. It was no longer survival.

Many did not notice the difference. He still drank, he still boxed, he still immersed himself in pointless and stupid experiments. But really, he had changed completely. He still drank because he enjoyed the highs, and the lows gave reason to Watson to pull him out of them; not because he needed to be drunk to forget the day he had just survived. He still boxed because there was someone, there, who was rolling his eyes and sighing, but secretly betting his entire salary on him. He still busied himself with pointless experiments because he was interested in what he was doing, not because he needed a distraction from his life. Because why would he want to be distracted from what he suddenly had? No longer did he just survive.

Right here, now, on the rooftop, Sherlock felt very much like he had survived his last case. And he was scared. He had expected, before Watson had left, that he wouldn't be able to survive without him. That he wouldn't be able to get up and keep fighting, he wouldn't be able to do his job. But, over the last month since Watson had left, he had been devastated to find that he was still quite able to survive without his friend. He could still keep going, he could still manage. He could survive; he always survived. Holmes didn't know if he could go back to surviving, not without loosing so much of what he had become.

Holmes wondered, silently, whether Watson could _live_ with Mary. Nodding to himself, he realized he could. That was...that was painful. And yet, he found himself smiling; because at least his best friend could be happy. No matter what Holmes felt, that was what was most important. Maybe, if he was just surviving, he could glaze over what he had lost - in himself and- and in his life. He knew that, after a while, the pain would go away. It always did in the end. Survival demanded it.

Holmes had to get up. He would go to the police station, tell them about the night's occurrences, go home and fall into bed; more than likely with a drink in his hand. For the physical pain, of course. He didn't even bother to wonder whether if he could get up. He could always get up, brush himself off, and walk off the roof.

Or wherever else it is he had decided to collapse that day. It was all relative, really.

And so, he found himself limping along the street. He felt the cold begin to seep truly into his bones. A heavy step sent a pain coursing through his ribs again, phantom pain bouncing back on all of the other less injured areas of his body; the gashes on his leg, shoulder and head. The smaller cuts littering the rest of his body. His _fingers_. He hissed in pain, stumbling to a halt. Perhaps he should go home first, get something for the pain. Then he could tell the police.

And so, he found his feet dragging in the direction of his oh-so-empty house. He began to feel his whole body cold and blood loss destroying his composure. Only a few metres to his house...then he could relax...

Holmes stumbled to a confused halt when he got to the door. The first reason was that he honestly had no idea what time it was, and thus whether or not Mrs Hudson would be awake, and he had no idea if he brought his key.

The other reason was the man sitting dejectedly on his steps, his head in his hands, his case and cane rejected next to him, his hat askew.

"Watson." Holmes said in a voice that said "I am very confused why are you here" "Hello" and "I just fought a brutal murderer, hung from a tall building by a small rope, climbed up on my own and then _strolled home_ and I think I may be a little beaten up". Watson started visibly at Holmes's voice and scrabbled to a stand, grabbing his stuff as he did so. Once stood, Watson adjusted his hat, his jacket, his pockets and anything else he could to ensure there was no eye contact at all between him and Holmes. Holmes himself watched the whole exercise with a hint of his old amusement, his old smile creeping onto his face. He cocked his head to his side.

"Why are you on the steps? Mrs Hudson should have let you in if you had knocked_" Unless it _is_ late, in which case, were both stuck... then again, it is light, so I don't think its the middle of the night, but I don't really know._

Watson swallowed. "I haven't knocked yet." Holmes had not expected that. It took a moment to filter through his brain – which was quick becoming greyer and fuzzier.

"Oh" Holmes stood upright from where he had been leaning against the metal gate. He could tell he had listed to the side from the odd way the world tilted sideways. Watson ran along the sloping ground – a remarkable feat, as Holmes himself was struggling with his footing. Watson held his friends shoulder, remaining upright. Holmes felt himself inspected by the doctor.

"Good god Holmes, can you look after yourself for any length of time at all?"

"You've been gone for a month" The retort came back more bitter than it had been intended. He pushed his friend away. "What are you doing here?" He asked sullenly. He tried to walk towards the door, but found a rather pesky little step in his way. He felt himself fall forward, throwing his arms out to protect his face. There was a crash, a moment of disorienting tumble, and a blinding pain in his ribs. He heard a curse behind him, and soft hands on his body, rolling him over. He realised that he is still rambling, pain blurring his senses, pain, so much pain. He could still feel Watson's hands, assessing his injuries, helping him. In time, he felt the pain subside again. Suddenly, Watson spoke up.

"Looking after you, I guess". Holmes opened his eyes and looked up at him, confusion on his face. "That's what I'm doing here". Holmes snorted, then looked away.

"Then are you going to leave again?" he asked.

"No"

"...what?"

"I'm not leaving again. I never thought I'd say this – but after tasting life with you, everything else seems a bit...grey. And anyway, it's not as if you can look after yourself"

"I did fine before you got here"

"But now you need me"

"I don't need you"

"Liar"

Holmes didn't respond. He just smiled and fell into the darkness, knowing he could, that he would be safe. Because someone was here to make sure he lived; in every sense of the word.


End file.
